


Wing and a Prayer

by WingsandImpalas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Dean, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dean has a weird angel name, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of addiction, Prophet Castiel, Psychic Abilities, Roadtrips, Seeing Souls, compromise is key, more tags to be added as I write, reverse verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-07-14 02:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16031567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsandImpalas/pseuds/WingsandImpalas
Summary: Dean glares at him. “when I told you I wouldn't hurt you, it included not burning your eyes out with my true form!”Castiel rolls his eyes. “What the hell does that even mean?! What are you?”Dean smiles soothingly. “I’m an angel.”“Bullshit!” Castiel says, laughing as the anxiety finally melts away.“It's the truth!” Dean yells defensively.Castiel laughs again. “Right and I’m John the Baptist.”“Not exactly. Close, though,” Dean says, shifting uneasily in his chair.//////Castiel is cursed. He can see souls, every gritty detail of a person is instantly exposed to him whether he wants it or not. Naturally  dealing with people is a constant test on his sanity. So unsurprisingly this treasure hunt with his freaking freshly suited ‘Guardian angel’ will probably be the thing that makes him lose his mind completely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so it’s been awhile but without future ado here is the fic I’ve been planning for ages and hopefully won’t abandon anytime soon! 
> 
> I must give a massive thank you to @suckerfordeansfreakles and @sharkfish for beta’ing me, modivating me and getting mad at my cliff hangers when I stopped writing for the day this would not exist without you. 
> 
> More updates coming soon.

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/veQqxZg)

The painting has consumed him.

 

In the beginning he was sweeping large strokes of purple and gold but now it’s all details. Each one painstakingly rendered with a single-minded determination. There’s a sense of urgency that just won’t leave him alone. A toxic nagging, like an itch he can’t scratch.  Not fully present in his own body. Castiel can’t say he remembers what day it is or if he’s had any food in in the last 24 hours. Yet he keeps working, distantly hoping the fumes won’t kill him. His hand aches.

 

It takes hours for the sensation to finally leave him. It's unsettling. It's always unsettling, waking up like this. How it feels to notice the snakes in his stomach stop squirming, the way his skin stops vibrating. He’s definitely not stoned enough to deal with it. In fact, he’s surprisingly sober — and on further thought, sleep deprived. He’s definitely surpassed his previous limits of testing exhaustion.

 

Scrubbing a paint-stained hand over his jaw, Castiel tries not be concerned about the amount of stubble on his jaw. That’s just to be expected at this point. What is surprising, is the number of empty glasses on his workbench. He genuinely doesn’t remember stopping to get those, or the bag of Cheetos next to them, for that matter. _He doesn’t even like Cheetos._

 

Baffled, Castiel stares at the mess and tries to think beyond the influence of the painting. He probably went to the bathroom at some point too, but he can’t remember doing anything other than painting for days now. Shrugging at the mess, Castiel starts to roll his shoulders. Releasing what feels like years of pent-up tension along his spine before finally dropping his brush into the green stained jar of turps. In what feels like eons, he finally breathes. Dragging his feet, Castiel walks the 10ft chasm between his easel and bed. Falling face first into the messy nest of blankets. For once, he doesn’t dream.

——

Overall Castiel ends up sleeping for over 12 hours, waking to the sound of rain hitting his bedroom window. For a second, he forgets about his earlier vision induced mania and just listens to the street noise outside, before he catches sight of the edge of the still wet easel and remembers. Standing up, Castiel ignores it for a second, looking at his room instead. It's more of a mess than usual, paintbrushes are scattered everywhere, bits of oil paint flecked out on his rug and sheets that he knows are now a permanent feature. Why his vision insisted he paint in oils and not watercolours like the last time, he has no idea. He can’t deny, though, that it does leave an impression.

 

It’s not often that Castiel paints something so familiar. He’s used to snapping out of trances to find battles fought by monster, dark smoke vomiting into streets from decrepit places, and wings in all shapes and sizes. Most of this, he finds, is a metaphor for the darkness out there. A demon sighting or a summoning, warnings that he often to calls Missouri's grapevine of hunters about. This painting is not like the others.

 

Castiel has painted his store, with it's cheap purple wallpaper and mismatched wooden shelves that he bought cheap and broken. Each shelf is filled with detailed jars of spices and incense, candles and charms, and the discount tarot card packs he stocks, bright against the black wood. It’s the kind of tiny detail work that must have taken him hours to paint. Yet he can barely focus on that. Instead, he finds himself entranced by the lion in the doorway.

 

The creature is painted gold, sitting tall and proud on a cheap rug, emerald green eyes surveying Cas through the easel. They match its wings, huge sprawling things that hit the ceiling. Greener than anything he owns, he must have mixed the paints to get the colour. He now knows that  once it’s dried he’ll be able the feel the hardened ridges of the feathers. Suddenly the oil paint makes perfect sense. His fingers itch to touch them, now. Tackiness be damned.

 

Instead, he forces himself to move on. Picking up the glasses between his fingers as he carries them across the apartment towards the kitchen. His place is nothing more than a studio, really; painted a light grey to counteract the vivid purple downstairs. As always, it messy, paint splattered and worn down. Castiel has lived here for two years and still doesn't feel any attachment to it. In fact he vastly preferred the warm yellow rooms of Missouri's house. The smell of her blackberry tea and her comforting smile after he came out of trances like this. He doesn't belong there, though. Not when Missouri has a granddaughter to train. A sweet girl who needed her grandmother’s comfort more than the twenty-something basketcase moping in her spare room. At least that's what Patience’s father had said about him. Castiel personally feels like he needed Missouri's brand of comfort plenty.

 

After all, it's not everyday that people wake up from a freak accident with psychic powers, or so Missouri claims, anyway. He's just thankful to her for trying to help him in the first place, for teaching him everything she knows. How to use his gift to help people, as well as warning him about the types of creatures that would use him for it. A part of him aches to call her now. To explain the fear he feels at seeing a beast in his home, even if it's just on canvas. He promised her that he would try to take care of himself for once, though. She can’t baby him, not anymore.

 

Leaving the dishes to steep in the sink, he makes an effort to clean the place just a little. Grabbing dirty clothes from the floor and hastily shoving them in the hamper. He's in the middle of picking up his paint tubes when he finds a bottle of rum under the couch. Hastily, he uncaps the lid and necks it, relaxing at the burn. He should probably eat something too. Instead he puts the bottle back to his mouth and heads for the shower. Food can wait for now.

 

—-

Castiel opens the shop when he gets downstairs, freshly showered and fed. It's not much, his little store, but it pays the bills. Oddly enough the people of Portland, Maine, find his place quirky, like there’s not a dime a dozen of metaphysical stores in the area. They still come here despite the odd hours he keeps, the days he closes without warning. True, he’s never swarming in customers but every now and then he gets the odd stragglers. Mostly wannabe-witches and teenagers desperate to be different. Then he gets people like Daphne Allen. Castiel knew her the second their eyes met over the counter, and he knows she’s not here to buy incense or lucky stones. No, Daphne’s not that kind of person. She's the kind that calmly walks in, shakes the rain off her red umbrella and set a white envelope on the counter saying, “I’d like a reading.”

 

Castiel picks up the envelope, counting the money inside like he does with everyone. Daphne watches him cautiously, only once he's sure she's giving him the full $200 does he look up. “Follow me.” he says parting the beaded curtain. She gives him a strange look, delicately ducking under his arm into his reading room, hidden from outside eyes. Castiel watches her as she enters, noting her expensive raincoat and elegant haircut. She doesn't fit in with the purple walls and novelty psychic posters, and from the way she watches him, she knows it.

 

He doesn't try to make her feel more comfortable. Instead, he folds the envelope into the back pocket of his jeans and lights the three black pillar candles he placed on the table. Like the posters and the crystal ball, it's mostly for show. He knows what people are expecting when they come to places like this, and Castiel has no problem playing into those beliefs if it gets him customers. “So, Daphne, what are you looking to find here today?” he asks while waving out the match.

 

Daphne's eyes widen. “How’d... How’d you know my name?” she asks like they all do. Because even though they come to places like this, nobody really believes in the supernatural. Castiel personally thinks that people are idiots. He doesn't say that out loud, though, instead he plays his part, raising his eyebrow and says, “I’m psychic.” Daphne looks at her hands, refusing to meet his eyes. “You still haven't answered my question?”

 

“What question?” she says nervously twisting the wedding ring on her finger.

 

Castiel slumps into his chair, folding his hands on the table like some mockery off prayer.  “Why are you here, Daphne?”

 

“A… A friend said I should do this. She, ugh, she said it’d be fun.” Castiel doesn't call her out for lying. It's obvious, even without his gift, that she is. People like her don't spend $200 dollars on fun unless it's a vacation. Instead, he glares at her through the candle flames, reaching his arms out to circle them, palms side up. “Give me your hands,” he orders, and she follows without question.

 

The minute they make contact, Castiel truly sees her. Watches mesmerized as the green of her eyes melts into pink smoke and green water. Daphne's soul is pretty, like most are, pretty and boring. Circular shaped and small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. With practised ease Castiel examines it, looking past the surface level informations like her name and age. He caught that already when she walked in. Instead, he focuses on the waves of feelings that wash over him, her apprehension at what she's doing here, her disgust for being in this part of town, the brief pulse of attraction she feels when looking at him. Castiel ignores it all digging deeper and deeper until he sees the root of her problem, an ugly pulsing bulge of rage and suspicion and betrayal.

 

“You think your husband’s cheating on you,” he says aloud. Daphne gasps, and Castiel feels another rush of apprehension, wonder and pain. He holds her hands tighter, digging at the wart and closing his physical eyes to see the flashes of memories that spring free. The overheard conversations, the smell of rose perfume on his shirt despite Daphne favouring orange scented products. Texts messages and cold dinners and late nights at work, a mouth shaped bruise on his chest that she knows she didn't leave. Each memory is covered in denial, so strong Castiel has to pull back from it. Letting go of Daphne's hands, he opens his eyes again. “He is,” Castiel concludes without remorse.

 

Daphne’s eyes start to water, the truth she’s already suspected finally confirmed. Despite the lack of skin on skin contact, he still sees the after-image of her. The fading spectre of her soul, revealing her pain, her desire for revenge. Any other day, he’d probably pick at that scab on her soul. Needle at that her need for revenge and that brief burst of attraction, just to spend hours lost in her body, trying to make both of them feel better. It wouldn’t be the first time he's slept with client, and Daphne’s certainly beautiful, in that elegant way that reminds him of his old life. Exhaustion makes him pause though, he still feels the lingering fatigue in his bones. The kind that makes him think this trance hasn't fully finished yet. He’d never force a lover to see him like that, virtual stranger or not.

 

Ignoring the idea Castiel blows out the candles instead, while Daphne weeps. Something stirs within him. He has never been very good at comforting someone, even before the incident he always managed to say the wrong thing. It's worse now, though, because he can remember the feel of her pain, the coppery taste of it on his tongue. Avoiding direct skin contact, he places his hand on her shoulder. “Would you like some blackberry tea?” he asks as softly as possible. “I find it can be rather calming?”

 

Daphne shakes her head and sniffs. “No… no, I’m fine,” she lies, wiping her nose on the back of her expensive coat. “I just - I need to leave.” She stands abruptly, straightening her coat creases and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Castiel steps back, folding his arms across his chest as she walks past him. Suddenly she stops in the doorway, turning back to face him. “Thank you,” she says politely, despite the mascara streak running down her cheek. Castiel can't resist to look at her again. Without holding her hand, her soul is less present, but it's still hard to miss the burning magenta of her determination. The way the sickly green of her pain melts under the waves of her fury. He smiles, “I wish you luck.”

 

Daphne nods, slipping behind the beads and picking up the little red umbrella. She doesn't look back as she leaves, head and umbrella held high. Somehow Castiel thinks she'll be fine.

\----

The rain continues throughout the day, bouncing pleasantly off the window while Castiel sketches behind the counter. It's not the frantic trance-like state from earlier, but it's far from the pleasant numbness he usually achieves when doodling. Instead, it's a feeling of uneasiness, like a finger tracing down his neck. Running his tongue over his piercing, he starts to shade in the ancient looking tablet. Oddly enough, it reminds him of old bible stories. Except, it's blank — more a smooth rock than a set of commandments, yet the phrase _tablet_ sticks in his head.  

 

Overhead, the bell tinkles, causing Castiel to look up at the door. A man stands in the doorway, bathed in a golden glow from the the lamp above him. He looks curiously around the room before stepping inside, eyes locking with Castiel through the empty space. Goosebumps prickle on his skin. Like Daphne, he doesn't belong here. Unlike Daphne, Castiel has no clue who this man is. He drops his pencil, bracing his arms on the counter instead to steady himself as a wave of power suddenly pulses off the man. Filling the room with the smell of cut grass and the feeling of warm sunlight on Castiel’s skin. Despite his wariness, it makes Castiel feel safe.

 

The man smiles warmly, clearly aware of the effect he has as he prowls through Castiel’s little store. Stopping at the counter, he awards Castiel with a close-up view of his hypnotic green eyes and a flash of straight white teeth. He’s possibly the most attractive person Castiel has ever seen. “Hello Castiel,” he greets, his voice curling into a seductive growl. “My name’s Dean.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Castiel talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry this took so long and it’s short. I was distracted by Anna’s ([@suckerfordeansfreckles)](https://suckerfordeansfreckles.tumblr.com/)  
> birthday present which you can find [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16153634)  
> Also this chapter hated me. It hated me every step off the way until I changed one line and suddenly everything made sense. Writing is weird like this.

Before Castiel was cursed he used to be a boring student with a boring name. His brain was logical and factual; full of idealism and the law textbooks he absorbed to get his degree. That all changed after he became a victim of one of the worst thunderstorms Illinois had seen in nearly a decade. He woke up with a lurch in his stomach, a headache from hell, and the world turning on its axis. As he parts back the beaded curtain to step into his reading room with Dean, Castiel feels the world tilt all over again. It's subtler this time, a slow tilt instead of a complete 180 but it's there. That same disorienting vertigo every time he looks at Dean. The man who, despite Castiel's gift, is a blank slate. An unreadable soul in a tailored suit.

Castiel walks past him to the corner of the room. His hands shaking as he turns on the kettle. Like everything he owns, it's a thrift piece, painted red and chipped from use. It shakes and rattles beside a box off Missouri's handmade tea; the only noise in the otherwise silent room.

Dean looks at Castiel's hands. Saying nothing as he sits at the reading table.

Castiel turns his away from him, watching the kettle instead. Breathing shallowly, he realises the room smells like springtime instead of his cinnamon incense. “You’re not human, are you?” Castiel asks as the kettle starts to squeal.

“Not even close,” Dean replies and despite having his back to him, Castiel can hear his smile. He doesn't turn around; instead choosing to pour the water into his mug. Lifting it to his face, Castiel inhales the familiar smell of blackberries instead of the springtime aroma.

“I only read humans,” he says, finally turning to face Dean.

Dean shrugs, leaning back into his chair. “Well, it's a good thing I don't want a reading.”

Castiel grips the mug tighter. “What do you want?”

“Your help,” Dean says, relaxing into his chair. “Now will you sit down and let me explain why? I’m not going to hurt you.”

“How the hell am I supposed to believe that?” Castiel says lifting an eyebrow.

Dean smiles softly. “Because I could never hurt you.” He says with such sincerity that Castiel sits, despite his better judgement.

“I think you're full of shit.”

“Do you, now?” Dean asks, sounding offended at Castiel questioning a single thing he says.

“Yes,” Castiel says taking a sip of his tea and wishing for whisky instead. Tired of being intimidated in his own home he puts the mug down. “I never trust a liar.”

“What have I lied to you about?” Dean asks innocently.

“Your name.” Castiel guesses, thinking of the false flowery scent that bloomed when Dean introduced himself. Dean smiles, almost as if he’s proud.

“You're very strong. I’m blocking you out, and you can still see right through me.” Dean says, staring at Castiel curiously. “You shouldn't be able to sense that at all.”

Castiel smirks. “So are you gonna tell me what your name really is?”

“No,” Dean says, teasingly, while the room smells of Peonies. “I’ll let you figure that one out on your own.”

“So it's embarrassing.” Castiel says smugly, as Dean starts to fidget. “I don't see how I can trust you.”

“Can we just leave my name out of this. I really just need your help with this one simple thing.”

“What is it?”

“Someone I used to know lost something very important, and I think you can help me find it again.”

“That’s it?”

Dean shifts in his seat. “Yeah, that’s it.”

“Your lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are, I can feel it. I can't help you if I don't trust you, and only way I'm going to do that is if you let me in,” Castiel says as he starts to dig at Dean's mental walls. Tentatively, a beautiful green-gold light unfurls. Filled with a soothing warmth that Castiel wants to bask in until he's consumed by it. He reaches further and further, straining towards the light -- but is halted by an angry, terrifying force of wind that roars through Castiel's mind, forcing him out. “Stop that!” Dean yells, snapping Castiel back into reality.

“What? Why?” Castiel asks, blinking at the sunspots in his vision. He hates to admit that he finds this new development fascinating instead of frustrating. It's just that nobody has ever been able to stop him from seeing before. Not even Missouri, who actually practised it with him.

Dean glares at him. “Because when I told you I wouldn't hurt you, it included not burning your eyes out with my true form!”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “What the hell does that even mean?! What are you?”

Dean smiles soothingly. “I’m an angel.”

“Bullshit!” Castiel says, laughing as the anxiety finally melts away.

“It's the truth!” Dean yells defensively.

Castiel laughs again. “Right and I’m John the Baptist.”

“No. Close, though,” Dean says, shifting uneasily in his chair.

Castiel shakes his head. “You're crazy.”

Dean sighs, fixing his shirt cuffs. “Look... It's complicated, and I’ll explain everything as long as you promise to help me.”

“Quit it with the Obi-Wan crap. Angels don't exist, Dean!”

“Clearly they do,” Dean says, straightening in his seat.

Castiel snorts, “Yeah and so does freaking Santa.”

Dean sighs, scratching the side of his perfectly styled hair. “Well, I mean I don't know if Xanna count as existing per say but…” Castiel shakes his head, his laughter going silent and borderline hysterical with each word Dean says.

“Castiel,” Dean says sternly. “Quit laughing at me. This is serious.”

Castiel shakes his head. “Dean, angels don’t exist.”

“They do.”

“Okay. let's say I humor you for a second. What would an angel want with me? ”

“Your special. God has a plan for you.”

“Gods a dick.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me just fine.”

“You used to pray to him.”

“Yeah and look where that got me. I prayed to him every fucking day until I was 19 . Then he let me get hit by fucking lightning! And when I was screaming and restrained in that fucking hospital, begging for God to take away this curse -- he did Jack-squat. God is an asshole.”

“Cas look…”

“No, you look if your are telling the truth. If angels exist. Then why would God let that happen to me?”

Dean sighs, looking down at the table. “Because Cas, that’s the only way to make a prophet.”

Castiel stills. “What?”

“On Earth, there always has to be a prophet. Those are the rules. Every time a prophet dies, another is brought into the world. And the only way to make another prophet is through -”

“Lightning.”

“Well it's more a burst of unfiltered grace but close enough.”

“Wow. So what God did this on purpose and then you came to me for help. Really?” Dean nods seriously. “Yeah, well, I didn’t agree to that. I’d like you to leave now.”

“Look Castiel - Cas.” Dean pleads, eyes wide. “There’s a war going on, and one of the worst demons to ever crawl outta the pit wants Heaven for herself.”

“Not my problem.”

“Yeah, Cas it is. If Abbadon gets Heaven, that’s it. Game over. She could evacuate every soul and leave hundreds of ghosts trapped here to never be at peace and when they lash out and kill people. Abaddon would sit there and laugh, probably kill a few humans herself - just because she likes it.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you need me.”

“That thing I need you to find. It’s a tablet full of spells that only a prophet can understand. Abaddon wants a spell of it.”

“So, what? Your here to kill me before happens?”

“No!” Dean yells like the thought never occurred to him. “I’m here to protect you and hopefully get you to help us instead.”

“With what? Why can’t you just explain what you want with me Dean?!”

“There’s more than one spell on that thing, Cas. Some spells could help Heaven’s side, instead.”

“You need me to read it for you.”

“Yes — I mean we'll have to find it first, but — yes.”

“You don’t even know where it is.”

“That doesn’t matter. A prophet can always find it.”

“And if that’s true - Why the hell do you think I would help you?!” Castiel asks, temper blazing.

Dean sighs. “It’s simple really, hell wants to end the world and Heaven well we just want to continue to ignore it. We’re the better option, if you think about it.”

“Yeah, because the side that fries my brain with a lighting and makes me see things for the rest of my life is totally who I’m going to support in this fight.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. So God gave you superpowers, you're still better off than a platypus. At least being a prophet makes sense. Are you really gonna condemn the world for that.”

Castiel sighs and thinks of the people in his life. Missouri, and Patience, and even strangers like Daphne. He doesn't want them to die, but he also thinks of the booze and the drugs. The vices he has because of what heaven apparently did to him. “I can’t do this.”

“Really, James? You used to be the kind of guy that went to protests to protect bees for God's sake. Now your just gonna let the world burn?”

“I’m not him anymore.” Castiel mutters, shrugging. He's not surprised that Dean knows the name of the man he used to be. Just sad that the man he used to be is dead and gone into a bottle.

Dean raises his eyebrow. “What's that supposed to mean? You were always destined to save the world, by being exactly what you are now”

"Destiny is bullshit."

"Says the guy who makes a business as a psychic."

"Yeah, well, that's how I know."

"C'mon, James. You’re the only one who can do this."

“No. James could have. Too bad your God killed him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you broke me, Dean!” Castiel yells, tears blurring his vision. “I had a life and hope and fucking faith and then I was alone. Deemed crazy after being praised as a miracle. And I could see all these things about the people who were supposed to help me. Personal, private things that I wasn't supposed to see. I just couldn't stop seeing things, even my dreams were - they were awful and despite the drugs and the therapy and the treatments I couldn't fucking stop. I just wanted it to stop. I just wanted to be saved. Missouri was the closest i've ever came to that -- but she isnt your God.”

“James -” Dean starts, voice cracking. “Cas, whatever name you prefer it doesn't matter. You're not broken. I wasn’t allowed to interfere back then, Cas. I wanted to but you weren’t ready yet. I had to find you a good teacher instead.”

“You sent her.”

“I did.” Dean sighs, smelling of lilies. He reaches across the table to take Cas’s hand. “I’m sorry it wasn't me who got you out Cas. I am but i did try the next best thing.”

“So, what? I owe you now, is that it?” Castiel asks, pulling his hand away.

Dean watches him, eyes turning cold. “Prophets were made to serve Heaven.” he says, like it's a fact. The only absolute truth. Forgetting the fact that Castiel makes his business out off lying. “Get the fuck out of my store, Dean.”

“C’mon Cas. You used to dream of saving the world.”

“I can't help you Dean. I’m not some hero, I’m a mess. I’ve lost my fucking mind.”

Dean shrugs. “You’re not so bad. You should have seen Luke, now that man was a mess.” Impossibly Castiel laughs. It's the smallest of noises, yet Dean smiles like it's the best thing he’s heard all day. Staring at Dean's stupidly pretty face, Castiel’s shocked he didn’t suspect Dean was an angel earlier; with a smile like that.

“Tell you what,” Dean's says standing from the table and fixing his coat. “I’ll give you some time to think about this. Then when you decide to help, you can let me know.”

“I didn't say yes,” Castiel mutters stubbornly, following Dean out to the main store.

Dean smiles. “You will.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, relaxing behind the counter. “Are angels psychic too.”

“No. I just have faith.”

“In God?”

“In you,” Dean says before walking out the door. Castiel watches him go in a daze, breathing in the scent of Irises Dean leaves behind. Castiel folds his arms and places his elbows on the bench. Forcing himself to calm down by breathing steadily. Head spinning, Castiel doesn’t panic, he doesn’t scream, his tears have dried, but he knows without a shadow of a doubt that Dean was wrong. He can't do this, he's just not that person.

 

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/80VuLAR)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it wasn’t obvious Cas can tell what Dean means through Flowers here’s all the meanings:
> 
>  
> 
> _peonie - bashfulness_
> 
>  
> 
> _Lillies - sympathy_
> 
>  
> 
> _Blue Iris - faith/hope_
> 
> I hoped you enjoyed this, my next update may also take a second cause I’m working on my Halloween one shot atm come say hi to me on [tumblr.](https://wingsandimpalas.tumblr.com/) If you want to find out about that!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, I'm apologizing again. For some reason [Salt and burn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16633511) My “One shot” Halloween fic is now 10k and growing and it has taking up some of my attention. Also A2 sucks and I hate everything, especially deadlines.
> 
> I'm putting a trigger warning for this chapter as it mentions alcohol and drugs being used as a coping mechanism and Castiel is in a very bad place mentally. Hes got a lot of self doubt issues and because I wanted him to be Endverse!Cas so I gotta make him sad. However I will promise you now he will get better by the end of this story, because I don't do sad endings. Saying that though I hope you do feel things because of this chapter as I myself was upset while writing it and Anna is not happy with me because of it.

Castiel frowns at the painting, meeting the pensive gaze from the winged lion. Finally seeing it for what it is, a warning about Dean. He’s done everything he can for now. The shop is closed for the night. Every window lined with salt and a mix of protective herbs left under the counter and with his security in place, he had went upstairs to get absolutely fucked and apparently examine his life choices. He’s halfway there at least. Numb to the burn of whiskey in his throat with a joint burning in his hand. Yet it’s still not enough to get Dean's words out of his head. It doesn't erase the earnest look in his eyes. Nor does it erase the way he had said  _ “You were always destined to save the world by being exactly what you are now” _ like he meant every word. 

 

Looking away from the lion, Castiel glances at the sketch-books he pulled out on the table instead. He knows what Dean said is bullshit anyway. A nicely worded bribe to make him help. Sure, he's known in the hunter community for finding the weird stuff no one else can, at least until he puts his pen to paper. But that's only because he spent years learning from Missouri to use his abilities to indirectly save lives. That doesn't make him qualified for this end of the world shit. Cases he can find no problem but he’d probably crumble under the weight of finding some magic tablet. 

 

Picking up a sketchbook at random. He flicks through the pages, each one filled with a prophecy or a clue. Most are old cases, like the tree in Lawrence outside the residence of a poltergeist he helped banish with a hunter named Jo. Then there's the chair, covered in chains that warned about Caleb's possession in Minnesota. The draining equipment that led Rufus to a Djinn in Illinois. All of it clues and cases he helped solve, symbols of the lives he helped save. 

 

Yet it was only after hearing Deans offer, that he was able to see all the clues he missed. In between the dozens and dozens of pages filled with charcoal smudged sketches. There is random crap stuffed into the binding, a mixture of napkins and receipts telling the same story Dean had been spewing. The one he’s been ignoring for God knows how long; locusts hidden in the corners of pages; feathers drawn onto the back of 7-11 receipts. A woman in a white dress with a stab wound in her chest. The charred remains of wings sprawling out underneath her. That one had left Missouri’s network baffled for weeks, but they looked into it anyway because he asked them too. None of them had known what it really meant, what the end of the world looks like. Not even him - but he finally sees it now, clear as day perhaps years too late. There's no way he’d be able to find the tablet if he can’t even make sense of this shit. Dean’s probably better of without him. 

 

Lifting up the joint, Castiel takes another hit and remembers a time before the incident. When he would have agreed to help Dean in a heartbeat. Saving lives meant the world to him back then. He spent half his life trying to get into environmental law, with the goal of saving the planet, and everyone he knew believed that he could - because nobody could stop James Novak.  

 

Waking up in the hospital had changed him, though, seeing everyone's thoughts had ruined the man he used to be. 

 

Knowing the doctors who worked on him were stressed, uninterested or even suicidal was bad. Learning that the few who saw him as a miracle and dreamed of the fame it would bring him was worse. Witnessing helplessly as his girlfriend Amelia began to see him as delusional. How she began to fear for him and then eventually became afraid of him had destroyed him entirely. At the time, being committed had seemed like a blessing. The drugs they gave him drove the visions away, and no one seemed to care anymore. Being told he was crazy made him give up on his dreams and his faith in humanity. Missouri was the one that taught him to believe in people again.

 

Missouri didn't seem to mind that Castiel could see her soul, because she trusted him. It was Missouri who taught him a way to block out all the impressions without opiates and when those beginner methods failed him, it was Missouri that made him go to AA meetings. She was the one who helped him channel his nightmares into drawings; she was the one that got his first sketch pad; who put him in contact with Jo after he dreamed every night for a week of that haunted family dying. Out of everyone, Missouri is the only one who's ever believed in the man he is now. Stubbing the joint out into his astray, he takes a deep breath and calls her. 

 

“Castiel, Hun. Why are you calling so late?” She answers, sounding grumpy and hard-faced and god, he loves her so much he can barely speak for a second. 

 

“Do you think I can save the world?”

 

"Castiel, are you drunk?" 

 

“Yes. Probably. That’s not why I'm calling.” 

 

“What happened to you staying sober? You were doing so well the last time we talked.” 

 

Castiel sighs, “I had a vision. A bad one. There was oil paint involved.”

 

“So what oil paint suddenly justifies you sacrificing your sobriety? Why were there even bottles in your house?!” 

 

Castiel groans, the familiar argument reminding him of all the reasons why he can’t be the person Dean needs him to be. He kept the bottles because he was too weak, too terrified to even be responsible for himself. There's no way he can be responsible for the world. “I keep them for emergencies,” he says, scrubbing his jaw. 

 

“Boy, you know full well that is a stupid thing to do.” 

 

“I know.” 

 

Missouri sighs. “Why are you asking if you can save the world?”

 

“It doesn't matter, I know what the answer’s gonna be.” 

 

“Castiel, everything matters when you're calling at 3 am. And unless this vision of yours involved my answer, I’m pretty sure you know nothing.”

 

“I got a visitor at the store today -" Castiel stops to take another calming breath and looks at the lion again. "Missouri, he said he was an Angel.”

 

“So he finally got round to paying you a visit, huh?” She says, sounding smug. 

 

Castiel freezes. “You knew this was gonna happen.”

 

“I didn't have a vision about it if that's what your thinking,” she says reassuringly, the only sign of her nervousness being the kettle brewing - because she only makes tea when she's on edge. "But I have met him before.”

 

Stunned, Castiel almost drops the phone, “You’ve met Dean?” 

 

Missouri laughs, “Yeah, I have met 'Dean' - If that's what he's going by these days. Y'know, I told him no one was gonna take him seriously with a name like his, but I didn't expect him to change it.” 

 

“You told an angel his name was stupid,” Castiel asks, not exactly surprised. If anyone was going to do it, it would be Missouri. 

 

“Yes, I did,” she says, laughing quietly again. 

 

“You weren't afraid he would do something?" 

 

"Like what?" 

 

"I don't know - smite you?!" 

 

“No," Missouri says, casually pouring her tea. "That young man wouldn't dream of hurting anybody, and he's a delight compared to Raphael. Trust me, hon, no angel would scare you after meeting him.” 

 

“Missouri? -” Castiel asks head spinning. “How many angels do you know?” 

 

“Just those two, and I’ve only met Raphael the once. The day my Grandma died, Prophets always get the executive escort when they die.” 

 

“Your grandma was a prophet.” 

 

“Yes, Castiel, she was - that's why Dean came to me when you were chosen. He knew I’d know what to do.” 

 

“Why didn't you just tell me all off this?” 

 

“Castiel, when I met you, you were a young man whose life just got seriously turned around. I wanted you to feel more solid before adding another layer of spirituality into your life. It's not like you were brought up Catholic.” 

 

Castiel nods, not quite agreeing. His parents only religion was money, but Castiel used to pray anyway. Not that Missouri would know that, Dean seems to be the only one who does. Still, even without that knowledge, he would have liked some kind of warning. “Why didn't you tell me later on then? Why not when I was living with you? Why was it okay to tell me monsters existed but not angels?” 

 

“Honey, I tried. When you said you didn't know yourself anymore, I gave you that damn book on angels and the most that came from it was a new name.” 

 

Castiel rolls his eyes. “You made me change that name.” 

 

“Because you didn't deserve to be the angel of solitude.” Missouri snaps back and even though he can't see her, he imagines her eye roll. 

 

Castiel huffs a laugh at the image, “Yeah, but Thursdays are completely fine.” 

 

“We met on a Thursday.” 

 

“That we did," Castiel says fighting a smile. "It's a good name.” 

 

“I know it is.” She says, then sips her tea. “Now stop changing the subject, what did the angel want with you?” 

 

“He needs my help to save the world.” 

 

“Hence your question.” 

 

“Yeah. It's okay though, I know I can't.” 

 

“And why the hell not. You’re a prophet, ain't ya?” 

 

“Yes, but I'm not -” 

 

“Not what, heroic? Brave? Resourceful? Because as far as I remember you were the one that ran into a haunted house armed only with a crowbar and a gut feeling.”

 

“That was different. I had Jo with me, and it was just one poltergeist.” 

 

“Plenty of hunters have been killed by one poltergeist, Castiel. And this time, you’d have an angel by your side- that's far better than one scrappy hunter that puts her feet on my table.” 

 

Castiel breathes a laugh at the resentment in Missouri's voice but can feel his voice break as the tears start to come. “Missouri, what should I do?” 

 

“Look, hun, if it's the fear of dying making you panic, I’d understand. But If the only thing that's stopping you from saving the world is thinking you can't, then you're never gonna be able to do it. Change your attitude Castiel, use this curse of yours for good. And for god sakes, admit that you're not a waste of space while you're at it. You’ve saved people before, just from the comfort of my reading room. Imagine what you could do if you stepped outside for a change and took on the monsters yourself.” 

 

“It's the end of the world, Missouri.” 

 

“Well, I can't think of a better man to stop it.” 

 

Castiel smiles, choking down another sob. “I’m terrified.”

 

“I think that's natural baby, but you’ve got a decision to make, biggest decision in the world.”

 

“What if I fuck it up?”

 

“At least you would know you tried.”

 

“Okay. Okay.” Castiel says, closing his eyes for a second and for the first time since the accident, he lets himself accept what happened to him. “How do I get in contact with Dean.” 

 

“Well, that's easy honey, all you gotta do is pray to him.”

 

“Okay, yeah that makes sense I suppose.” 

 

“I’m proud of you Cas, I always have been. Now put down that damn bottle and get some rest, you can pray when you're sober.” 

 

“Thank you, Missouri. For everything.” He says ending the call. A part of him wants to pray to Dean right now while he still has the nerve. But he can see Missouri point, there's something about Dean in his immaculate suit, looking down at him, high and paint-stained that turns his stomach. Instead, he sighs, lying down on his couch even if the beds only two feet away. 

 

When he closes his eyes, he wakes up at a bus stop. Rain batters against the sides, making pleasant clinks against the tin. His bare feet scrape against the wet gravel. Despite that Castiel doesn't feel cold. Looking up from his feet, Castiel glances at the timetable only to find a map in its place. 

 

“I didn't leave the country you know?” A man says, appearing beside Castiel and looking at the map like he sees more than Castiel could ever comprehend. “Couldn't afford the tickets, besides I knew there was a chance you’d be looking for it. Didn't want to make it impossible for you. You should go West if you want to find it.” 

 

“Why did you hide it?” Castiel asks, despite not knowing what the man’s talking about.

 

The man scratches the scruffy edge of his beard and shrugs. “I saw a lot of paths, lots and lots of roads, the world could go down any one of them. Besides, I didn’t like most of them. Especially the ones when she came and took it from me. Hiding it though, well those paths have lots of possibilities, some are even happy."

 

Castiel nods, watching as the man picks up his bag and walks into the bus that materialized from the rain. “What path are we on now?” He asks as the man gets on.

 

The man shrugs, “I don’t know yet. That depends on you, doesn't it?” He says as the bus door closes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far, I love you and I'm sorry it will get better soon I promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading, I hope you liked it. If you have any questions, comments or just want to say hi come visit me on [tumblr](https://wingsandimpalas.tumblr.com/) before it goes up in flames. I love you all.


End file.
